


I am 'Her Majesty's secret service'

by TooManyChoices



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond is jaded from years of service and disgruntled with his legacy.<br/>Why? Because there's something very special about James Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gothtigger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothtigger/gifts).



Bond….James Bond. Clichéd but effective. All it took was one long lingering look from his steely blue eyes and she hadn’t had a chance. James had taken her hand and allowed her to lead him to her private suite. It was all too easy, and frankly, if she hadn’t been carrying the documents he’d been sent to collect he wouldn’t have bothered pursuing her.

  
Hours later, as the first pale rays of light began their march around the edges of the heavy curtains, James silently rose from the bed. Glancing behind, he saw the woman, sprawled face down on the other side of their bed. Their lovemaking had been aggressive culminating in a savage brutality that surprised and aroused him. Tugging the drapes more firmly closed and preserving what little darkness remained he left the woman silent on the bed and washed and dressed in the lavish bathroom before leaving a pile of hundred pound notes on the side table, lifting the documents he’d come for and pulling the door shut behind him.

  
Long years of practice had equipped him well. He avoided the cameras dotted around the foyer and walked with the calm assurance of a man who belonged so completely that those in the lobby barely noticed him and wouldn’t be able to describe him if questioned. He stood aside as the doorman welcomed a well-dressed couple with two boisterous children in tow and slipped out as the door closed behind them.

  
Squinting in the pale Winter sunlight, James kept to the walls and what little morning shadows were available, swiftly reaching his silver Aston Martin and settling behind the wheel, his anonymity once again assured by the darkly tinted windows.  
Bored. Bored and tired. When had his life become so repetitive? Travel, danger, exotic hotels and women, a life many dreamt of had become a carousel of bright lights and gaudy music. Cloying and suffocating with sweetness. James closed his eyes for a moment, reaching deep within himself to draw on a silent, still calm reserve of energy he used to centre himself at times like this. He had a job to do.

  
During the drive he considered his long career. He’d seen so many other come and go. M’s, Q’s, More than three Moneypennys and the double O’s, so many good agents, so many lives lost to the years. But he was still here, still working, still killing for Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He’d become some sort of a myth, a legend spoken of by the recruits. A never-ending presence with a legacy of death. Some Legacy he thought wryly.

  
Six hours later and over 800km away he pulled into the gravel driveway of the embassy, turning left to park at the far end of the carpark. Away from prying eyes, and waited for darkness to fall.

  
Slipping into the deepening shadows, James traversed the carpark, slipping first to the wall, then scaling it with effortless agility, one floor, two, then onto the small balcony outside the third floor window. Glancing through the curtains he could see this was the room he wanted, the private office of the Consular Assistant. He’d been exposed as a serious security leak and could not be allowed to continue in this capacity or indeed any other.

  
Flipping the latch on the window James silently entered the room, moved a convenient leather club chair to a shadowed corner and waited for his victim to return from his afternoon meetings. Less than an hour later, the office door opened and the light from the hall was briefly blocked by the assistant’s long, lean frame before he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  
James watched him move to his desk, drop files in an untidy pile, sit and heave a long, tired sigh. Crick his neck once to the left then right, an audible click at the latter. The tension of the day seemed to drop from his shoulders and James knew there wouldn’t be a better time.

  
“Finished for the day?” James casually asked, rising from his chair and capturing the man’s eyes with his own.

  
Fear widened the man’s eyes, the shock of this unexpected intrusion robbing him of speech. “Who..”, he finally managed to squeeze out

  
“Just shut up,” Bond snapped quickly, “Get up.”

  
The man obeyed silently.

  
“You won’t understand what is about to happen, but I want you to understand why”, Bond went on to explain the lives that the man’s treachery had cost. Good men, honest men doing honourable work for their country. In one case, an agent’s entire family had been butchered as a result of information leaked. For money, for nothing more than money.

  
With each sentence, Bond had moved closer, step by step, his eyes never leaving the assistant’s and like a rabbit caught in headlights he hadn’t even realised until James was standing virtually nose to nose.

  
“And now”, he said quietly, “we’re going to finish this. But you understand why now, don’t you?”

  
The man nodded dumbly, tears running down his face. James put his hands on either side of his face, kissed him gently on the forehead and whispered, “But I forgive you”. Then he turned the Assistant’s face gently, leaned in and sunk long sharp fangs into his neck drinking deeply, tasting guilt, remorse and there, right at the end, gratitude for the redemption Bond had granted him.

  
After staging the room as a suicide, ensuring no trace of the bite marks remained James returned to his car. Mission complete for Bond, James Bond – Vampire to her Majesty the Queen.


	2. Give me more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is fed up with his role, there must be more to un-life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a gift for a very special friend who's going in for an operation tomorrow. I love you GothTigger, see you on the other side.

“You have to be more careful, James.” M’s voice was carefully neutral.

 

“Why?” James said dismissively, “I mop up any mess left behind.”

 

“That’s not the point!”

 

_“Ahh, there’s the anger_ ,” James thought,” _She treats me like I’m an inch away from vaulting the desk and savaging her.”_

“If you can’t do the job any more…” M trailed off, avoiding his eyes.

 

_“Then again, perhaps I might.”_ James smiled, taking care to ensure his fangs stayed demurely behind his lips. “I wasn’t given a choice. I needed to make a choice, and I made it. You got your precious double agent back, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes,” M said slowly, “We did. Thank you 007.”

 

James nodded and mumbled something about it being his job. How he hated this job with its endless errand running for bureaucratic lap-dogs; each one snivelling and whining to a master higher up the chain. All of them treating him with a distasteful deference laden with the knowledge that he’d still be here long after their worthless corpses had rotted in their expensive graves.

 

M wordlessly slid a folder across the desk, the whisper of the cover against the polished timber loud in the uncomfortable silence of the room, “I have your next assignment.”

 

James looked at it as if the file contained the mid-day Bermuda sun. _Hateful_ , he thought. He swiftly ran through the possibilities; extraction, execution, intelligence gathering. All equally boring, all equally unlikely to stretch his abilities beyond those he’d used before a thousand times.

 

“Just take it, James.” a touch of steel in her voice.

 

“And if I don’t?” James replied darkly.

 

“Don’t push me Bond, we’ve had this conversation before.” M’s fingers gripped the arms of her leather chair a little too tightly. It was a delicate dance they shared, she and M; that of a child holding the leash of a tiger. Whilst the creature looked bound, it was all illusion… and the child knew it.

 

“Yes,” James spat, “We have. I’ve had it with you, with your predecessor, and his before him.” He stood to pace the room, “Endless, timeless conversations, with an ever ending parade of diplomats who have forgotten exactly _why_ they’re doing this.”

 

M sat unmoving, James could smell her fear. She reeked of it as he continued to shout.

 

“But I _haven’t_ forgotten, have I? Because I’ve been here all along, I’ve walked these halls since before you were _BORN_. I _REMEMBER_ why you’re here, why we’re ALL here.”

 

“James…”

 

James held up a hand, standing in the shadows by the side of the window, “We serve at the pleasure of the crown, M. We are Her Majesty’s Secret Service.” He turned back, his anger calming as he tried to explain, “We accept those tasks that would be unimaginable to her. That would repulse and terrify her. We walk into war zones, into fire, stare horror in the face and we.don’t.back.down.”

 

M leaned forward, her hands clasped together on the desk, listening intently. James smiled minutely, sometimes, the image of the monster made them forget that his centuries of life had rendered him as much a thespian as a murderer.

 

“We’ve forgotten that, M. Under the yoke of diplomacy and _political sensitivity…_ ” he spat the words, “we’ve lost sight of the unique part we have to play.”

 

James returned to his seat by the desk, eyes shining with a fervour that he’d lost somewhere in the past hundred years, “This world _needs_ monsters. It needs them to make sure the children stay inside at night, because the night is dark, and it’s scary, and children shouldn’t be out there alone.”

 

M quietly pulled back the file to her side of the desk, “What are you saying, James?”

 

“Let me be your monster.”


	3. Hunting the hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is on assignment in India.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another birthday gift for GothTigger.  
> This series is truly a labour of love. I'm certainly not doing it for the hits.

Queue the music, James thought as he inserted the unobtrusive earbuds and the vibrant sound of jazz trumpets filled his ears.

There had been countless covers of Ella Fitzgerald’s 'All That Jazz' over the years, but in James’ opinion, none would ever come close to her effortless vocal control. He’s seen her live in the forties at the Savoy Ballroom and after a short and torrid affair, he’s taken the unprecedented step of offering her immortality. She’d declined, of course, explaining that the fire and lust for life could only been embraced when a person was aware that one day, that life would slip away. He’d stood at her graveside in 1996 and with a heavy heart, told the silent coffin that she’d been right all along.  
  
Breaking into an easy jog, James picked his way through the fetid alleyways of Bangalore. Travelling to countries like this was always a problem. His heightened senses, together with the over-ripe smell and noise levels left his nerves frayed and mood tenuous. There wasn’t much he could do about the crushing stench, but at least he could block out the worst of the cacophony of traffic and human noise.

Rounding the corner, James scented the air, picking though the hundreds of unwashed signatures to find the one he needed. Without a pause he stepped from curb to overcrowded road, effortless dodging and weaving between the chaotic traffic before ducking back down an alley on the other side. He was close, he knew that much. The best he could hope for was that his quarry was bunkered somewhere rather than on the move playing cat-n-mouse. That was always irritating, often requiring endless doubling back as they chased each other for hours.

Why can’t they just give up, James thought as 'All that Jazz' transitioned into 'Mack the Knife' and James smiled. Ella had once asked if the song was a thinly veiled bow to James as she reached to touch a delicate finger to his big teeth, and they’d laughed into the night. He’d never bothered to find out the true origins of the original ‘MacHeath’ and wondered idly as he rounded yet another corner exactly how far back the real story went.

Close, he thought, We’re close now. Stopping, James turned in a slow circle, nose lifted to better close in. Up, over there, James checked to ensure he was unobserved and vaulted to a balcony some four floors below his target.

He raised a fingertip to wipe at his lips with a frown. He was salivating and with a frustrated thought, realised that it had been over 48 hours since he’d fed.

That will teach me to take long haul flights and hit the streets straight off the plane. He was under strict instructions NOT to kill the suspect, and with a disgruntled nod, James had agreed.

Nothing to be done for it now. He scaled the remaining floors, gripping the uneven bricks and mentally apologising to the knees of his tailored trousers and they chafed against the masonry as he finished the climb, easing silently onto the top floor landing.

Voices; four. Oh that’s… excellent. There were a number of facets of his job that helped him keep his sanity and one was certainly residing in the cracks between M’s orders. He’d keep the target alive. In fact, he’d barely touch him. But M had said nothing at all about surrounding carnage, and the consequences of that oversight would be her burden, not his.

With a low growl, he mentally pictured the location of each victim within the room and worked through the strategy in his head. He ran his tongue thoughtfully over the inside of his fangs as he considered the order of attack and the careful balance between efficiency and sport.

In an ideal world, he’d let one escape and hunt him down, tracking him by the fear in his sweat before bearing him to the ground and drink his blood mixed with tears of panic.

But it wasn’t an ideal world and there was a limit to the amount of PR damage the agency could handle in a foreign country, so he’d constrain the chase to the room.

*

James wiped his mouth with the back of a messy hand. True to his commitment, the target was locked in the tiny windowless toilet, completely oblivious to the reign of terror that had occurred in the two roomed apartment.

Well, perhaps not oblivious, he considered the screams of horror and the ultimately delightful gurgling as they stilled. But he hadn’t actually witnessed anything, James thought as he rifled through the cupboard for some spare clothes. He couldn't possibly go out on the street like this. He’d already rinsed his hair under the tap in the sink and the expensive suit was a write-off.

But it had been glorious. He hadn’t felt this — alive, in ages. He looked at the bodies in the gore coated loungeroom, now barely recognisable and shrugged. Blindfold, he nodded to himself, tearing a strip of fabric from a shirt in the wardrobe.

He sniffed at a pair of faded jeans and a non-descript grey T-shirt before pulling them both on and moved to the toilet, within which a steady chorus of shouting and swearing was continuing.

“Shut up”, James shouted at the door.

“Let me the fuck out, you psycho,” came the reply.

James chuckled, a psycho would probably have made less of a mess, but the target wasn’t to know that.

“Alright, here’s what you’re going to do,” James continued slowly, “and if you follow these directions, this psycho won’t slit your throat, like your friends out here.”

“Jesus, fucking LET ME OUT!” The banging on the door resumed.

James sighed and internally counted to thirty. When there was no sign of the noise abating, he decided to change tactics, “Alright, throat slitting time. You asked for it,” and rattled the door handle.

“WAIT… NO… I’ll… shit, what do you want me to do?”

“There’s a good boy. Now, turn around and face the toilet and I’m going to come in and blindfold you,” James waited for the response.

“What? Why…”

“You can ask questions, or you can live. I’ll give you some thinking music to decide, shall I?”

There was mumbling from within the cramped room until finally, “Alright, alright, I’m facing the fucking bog, come in.”

James turned the handle and briskly tied the fabric around the man’s head, backing him slowly out of the confined space and guiding him across the floor with a hand on his bicep and the other fisted in the back of his shirt.

Half way across, the man’s foot nudged wetly into a pile of what was recently his business associate and he stumbled.

“What the FUCK is that?” He almost shouted.

Leaning close, James whispered into his ear, “Was that another question?”

The shudder that ran through his target as a beautiful thing and James inhaled deeply at the wave of pheromone-laden sweat that rose, “No, shit… no.”

“That’s the right answer,” James began shuffling him forward again before suddenly stopping, “Damn, wait there a moment. Do.Not.Move.”

At the removal of his hands, the target whined low in his throat, “Where are you?… wait, no, forget I asked. Just, come back.”

James smiled, lips pulling back from his still exposed fangs. This had been one of the most fun assignments he’d had in decades.

He stepped over what remained of the piles of humanity toward his discarded suit. Crouching carefully, and avoiding the mess on every surface, he delicately flipped over the front of his suit jacket. Using a pencil to avoid the worst of the gore, he lifted the edge of the fabric to expose the inside pocket and withdrew the treasure inside.

Standing smoothly, he tucked the earbuds into the pocket in his borrowed jeans. Returning to his quarry on the other side, he found himself humming…

 _Ya know when that shark bites with his teeth, dear_  
Scarlet billows start to spread  
Fancy gloves, oh, wears old Macheath, dear  
So there's never, never a trace of red

No, James thought with a smile, looking at where the wreckage of his victims still lingered around his cuticles, MacHeath certainly wasn’t based on him. 


End file.
